and somewhere, you are there
by DictionGoddess
Summary: In the wake of the shooting, Martin reevaluates different aspects of his life, with surprising results.  Written for the DM Undercover challenge.


**and somewhere, you are there**

The first thing he notices isn't the white walls, the strange beeping, or the sensation of a tube down his throat: he only knows that things are _different _. It is strange and unwelcome.

Martin quickly begins to think of this new world as a negative thing, defined by a series of "no's" that prevent him from normalcy. The aptly-acronymed ICU offers no privacy, a foreign concept to a Fitzgerald. His privacy was sacred—don't ask, don't tell was much more than a military concept, but a life philosophy. Not anymore.

There is just a glass wall between himself and the nurses' station; they watch him all the time. They check the tubes: the one that re-inflated his lung, the ones that drain excess fluid from body cavities to avoid infection, the one that relieves him of waste. He's on a liquid diet, which he is thankful for.

They peel off the bandages and look at the line of surgical staples that runs from the top of his breastbone to right above his belly button, pressing carefully around it to make sure the tubes are doing their jobs. The nurses always inform him about that scar—never about the staples that close the bullet holes.

They change his IVs, add more fluid when his blood pressure dips a bit, add antibiotics when infection becomes an issue, and take away the empty bags when he is done. He's got a giant catheter sticking out of his collarbone, which occasionally gets itchy. They always know when he tries to rub it, and come in with nice, cool hands and soft voices.

He's in the glass room for a week, though he only remembers four of the seven days, and he can only remember parts of the four days. Drug-induced coma took two days, when the doctors weren't sure he would make it and wanted to give him time to heal. Fever took the other, two days after he woke up. The other four days are hazy memories of everything the nurses do, his father and mother sitting dutifully beside him holding his hands, hasty lunchtime visits from Sam (who looks as if she'd rather vomit than visit), phone calls from Vivian (she talks, he says "hi," "okay," and "thanks"), an afternoon update from Jack about the office, and watching Danny watch him through the glass.

On the last day, they wipe the tears from his eyes as they get him to sit up in a chair. He doesn't do any of the work but he feels everything. He doesn't even mean to cry, but there is nothing he can do to stop it. The tears are still rolling down his face as they gently lay him back onto the bed. He looks out the glass for the last time. Danny is standing there. Their eyes meet, brown staring into blue. Danny turns away.

Martin sleeps the rest of that day, and when he wakes up, he discovers that they have transferred him to a room with four solid walls. It is much worse than he expects, because now he must **ask** for all the assistance he still requires. Every time he presses the little red button on the left side of his bed, he drifts further and further away from the person he was before the shooting. He feels as if everyone can feel the change as well: his mother and father continue to visit daily, but instead of holding his hand and hoping he is able to speak, they bring magazines and talk about his post-hospital living arrangements. Jack comes by once with a card signed by people Martin does not know; Sam comes by twice reeking of misplaced guilt that he doesn't care to acknowledge; Vivian still calls everyday, and now that he is relatively aware, they have conversations about hospital Jell-O and the patterns on the gowns. He does not see Danny.

Martin is certain that once he is more aware, the time would pass slower. Instead, he falls into a routine where he is forced to move the parts that work and the parts that are unable to work without assistance, forced to eat bland, tasteless food that comes covered in a blue-lidded plastic dish, and forced to take painkillers that make him sleep whenever company came. Every movement drains him, and in the rare moments when he is awake and lucid, he begins to make a list in his head.

Work on weak left-side mobility.

Back to work after six weeks of leave.

Pass field exam after no more than one month back at work.

Resume regular lifestyle.

His focus now intact, he attacks physical therapy with new fervor. He does not mind how the days are passing, because he has a goal. He refuses painkillers until sweat forms on his brow and he is too tired to object. Two and a half weeks after the shooting, Martin is discharged to his parent's care. They have hired a nurse to come and check on him twice a day, and his mother will stay at his apartment until the doctor declares he no longer needs 24-hour supervision. She will also take him to his physical therapy sessions. His father must return to work, and promises to come on weekends. Anything that involves painted walls is appealing to Martin, and he even accepts the fact that he will need to walk with a cane if it means he is able to go home.

Martin realizes soon after his arrival that while he may be in his apartment, he is not home. Home is a place that fits with the last objective of his list: resume regular lifestyle. There are bars in his bathroom that he needs to use to hold himself up. The furniture has been moved to accommodate the walking space he will require with his cane. His belongings have been rearranged so that the things he needs to access regularly are on a level that does not require him to reach up or bend down. Everything is i _different /i _. Martin Fitzgerald does not live in this apartment. This person with the cane and silver-barred bathroom is a stranger.

Much to his dismay, the stranger seems intent on staying at the apartment indefinitely. Martin works as hard as he can at physical therapy and sees minimal results. He cannot forgo his cane for more than the walk between his bedroom and bathroom. He has difficulty raising his left arm to a ninety-degree position. He still experiences pain in his chest and stomach that can momentarily cause him to lose focus on whatever task he is attempting that the nurse explains is normal and will ebb with time.

Time is all this strange Martin has now. He works on the left-side mobility, but progress is slow and frustrating. He only receives permission to live on his own after the fifth week, and has no chance of returning to work in seven days. The field exam is fading into the distant future. A regular lifestyle is too far out of his reach. Jack doesn't talk about work anymore. Sam stops by occasionally, but her bright demeanor is fake and makes him angry. Vivian calls twice a week until she returns to work, and when she does call, she only talks about recovery. Danny is elusive, taunting Martin with hang-up phone calls and vague promises to visit that Sam relays to Martin when he asks after Danny.

Martin begins to try twice as hard. The results stay the same.

It is now week seven since the shooting. He is carefully lifting himself off the couch so he can make dinner when the pain strikes again, duller than before but still too much to bear. When it does subside, he is on the floor between the kitchen and living room, his cane beside him, and the anger uncontrollable. He picks up the cane and begins to hit the couch, hit a chair, hit the wall. He does not realize he is hitting objects—he is hitting this strange Martin, rebelling against this lifestyle he does not deserve. The cane falls from his left hand suddenly, and he feels hot tears slip down his cheeks.

As he stares at his surroundings, his cane now out of his immediate reach, he realizes that he can either stay on the floor or get up. It becomes a metaphor. He can reach for the cane until he is so tired he falls asleep on the floor and sets himself back a day, or he can carefully use the wall to get up and support him until he is able to pick up the cane. He can continue to try for the unreachable goals, or he can create new ones that may eventually lead to the same conclusion. He has a choice.

For the first time in seven weeks, Martin has a genuine smile on his face. He begins to make a new list, and this one he can handle.

At ten weeks, Martin only has two goals left on his new list, and by the end of the day, he is prepared for his new start. As Martin walks to the corner to hail the taxi, he realizes that this was the day he planned on being field ready at the FBI. Though it has not yet been three months, the agency is becoming a memory in Martin's mind. He still carries the cane beside him, as long journeys are still difficult without assistance.

He gets into the cab with shaking hands, and spends the ride rehearsing the speech in his head. When the cab pulls over in front of the apartment building, he takes three deep breaths before making a slow but steady exit. He is relieved to see someone exiting so he does not have to press the buzzer. The woman leaving holds the door and stares with sympathetic eyes, but Martin is focused and unaware of her unwanted attention. The elevator creaks upward. His hand knocks on a door. The door swings open. Brown eyes stare into blue.

"Martin." The tone is shocked. The voice unsure.

"Hey Danny."

"I've been meaning to call you, come over …" A haphazard hand movements signals that Martin should enter the apartment. "Being a man down has really kept us busy at work, and Sam and Viv keep me filled in, and I just …"

Martin places his right hand on Danny's shoulder. "Can I sit down, man?"

"Dammit. Yeah, sure. The couch is just in here." Danny's hands shadow Martin's shoulders, but Martin makes it to the couch with no need for assistance. Danny stands uncertain, then mutters something about water and ice and shuffles off to the kitchen. Martin sighs.

"I just wanted you to be the first to know that I'm resigning from the FBI." Ice cubes clatter into the sink as a cup lands with a heavy thunk.

"Why? Jack said …"

"Jack hasn't seen me in five weeks. I'm doing fine, but I'm not coming back."

"Is it desk duty? Because you know in missing persons that there are cases solved just from paperwork, and …"

"It's not what I want anymore"

"What?"

"I've had a lot of time to think, and I realized …"

"Jack said you were doing really well, and Sam said you sounded great. Viv always mentioned …"

"… that it won't feel the same anymore. There's no denying that I'm different now and …"

"… the conversations you had about recovery and that you were jealous she got to go back to work so soon. It doesn't make sense …"

"… I feel like I'd like to try something new for awhile."

" … that you'd leave me because of what I did." The conversation, which had been jumbled together, suddenly ended on Danny's words.

"Leave you? What did you do?"

"Leave the team, Martin." Danny's voice was defensive, but there was a soft edge to it. "Because I didn't have your back." Martin shook his head.

"I don't remember much, but it's not anything you did that caused it. It was Dornvald, plain and simple."

"I fired at him. He fired back at me and I ducked behind the car." Danny's lower lip was shaking, and Martin wished he could make it stop. "I don't know if that's what killed you or not."

"I'm not dead, Danny." His tone was soft, forgiving.

"I … I know that." The uncharacteristic stutter bothered Martin. He stood up and faced Danny.

"I just wanted you to know I was leaving. I wanted to see you. I missed you."

"I'm sorry Martin. I'm really sorry."

"I've got a physical therapy appointment, so I've got to go." Martin began to head for the door, wishing he had planned this better. "I'll see you around sometime."

"Yeah." The reply was so soft, Martin almost missed it. As the door shut behind him, he felt a strange sense of emptiness. He walked to the elevator, still creaking, and headed for the exit. He pulled his letter of resignation out of his pocket, stuck it in the mailbox outside the building. He hailed another taxi and headed toward a fresh start.

About five years later, he is standing in line at Starbucks, grabbing a coffee before he heads to his job at an accounting firm. It is not an exciting job, but it allows him enough time off for him to engage in hobbies. Martin Fitzgerald is no longer a workaholic. He goes home at 5 p.m. and works on the house he is renovating in Brooklyn. He takes all his vacation hours and travels both stateside and abroad; among other things, he has seen the Grand Canyon, Paris, Venice, and the world's largest ball of twine. He still has some residual left-sided weakness, and he can sense a rainy day hours in advance.

No longer Agent Fitzgerald, but still happy.

He thanks the barista for the steaming hot beverage, and as he heads for the door he knocks someone's briefcase out of his hands. As he leans over to pick up the papers, apologizing profusely the entire time, he feels a hand on his chin. Blue eyes stare into brown.

"Hello."


End file.
